Brace-Faced Fido

Sometimes, I think my standards are a little unrealistic. My friends always think my standards are unrealistic, but I only agree with them about 35 percent of the time.
However, I hope you all agree with me this time.
When out for dinner and drinks not too long ago, I was approached by a decent-looking guy. He told me he hadn’t been able to look away from me all night because he thought I was just gorgeous. He introduced himself and asked for my number. It was kind of a ballsy move, I figured, and he seemed nice, so I gave it to him. I know, after learning my lesson from the guy who looked like a serial killer, I should have handed him some questionnaires before giving out my number. Nonetheless, I gave it to him.
He called not too long thereafter. It took me 15 minutes to discover that he didn’t fit any of my standards by a long shot.
In just 15 minutes on the phone, I discovered he:
is on year No. 2 of a seven-year plan to open a bar (woohoo, bars in L.A. don’t even stay open for seven years).
lives with his mom at 27
and, as if that weren’t good enough…
he works as a vet technician. For a vet. who puts braces on dogs.
HE PUTS BRACES ON DOGS, PEOPLE.
You just can’t make this shit up. FML.

"You can [not always] have whatever you like, yeah, yeah."

I’m not a control freak.

No, I’m not trying to convince anyone of this fact; the act alone of trying to convince someone I’m not a control freak would prove contradictory. So I won’t try to connive, manipulate, or in any other way control your thoughts about me not being a control freak. Don’t worry—I won’t.

I will say, however, that if something needs to be taken control of, I know how to do it. The other day, when something at the office wasn’t working out to my satisfaction, a friend-co–worker said, “You know how to get what you want. Make it happen!” And I did.

She’s right. I generally do know how to get what I want (except a million dollars and a free Thai food delivery service—haven’t quite figured out how to get those yet). The problem with this is that I become incredibly frustrated with dating because it is something that is inherently entirely out of my control.

And that’s the whole point. The whole point of a relationship is having someone who wants to be with you, wants to kiss you, wants to help you mop up the 2 inches of water covering your floor when a pipe breaks, and wants to…give you lots of shiny things. (Wait, shiny things aren’t the point? I totally thought it was. I’m confused.)

Different magazines constantly seem to be publishing stories like “How to Make Him Like You,” or “How to Use Body Language to Get Him to Kiss You.” And sure, some of these tactics may occasionally work, at least on a surface level, but I don’t want to have to “make” someone like me or have to “use body language” to get someone to kiss me.

I just want him to want to like me. And I can’t control that. That is all on him.

Told you I wasn’t a control freak.

Debunking Myths (of all kinds, apparently...)

While working the other day, I came across a banner ad for Venus, you know, the women's razor brand?

The ad read, "Shaving Myths Debunked. Myth #1: It's okay to use my date's razor."

My first thought, was, Ew, ew, ew. For many reasons, none of which are necessary to go into in this post. You can figure them out, I'm sure. I ain't got no stupid readers.

My second thought was, Hey, wait, is this ad just assuming we're all sluts and that we'll just be slutting it up and going home with our date for the night, thus making it necessary for us to use his razor? Couldn't it have at least said "boyfriend"? Maybe even "partner." But no, Venus just assumes we're screwing our co-worker's best friend's cousin who happened to ask us out one night.

It assumes that, not only do we not have any sense of propriety or cleanliness, but that we also will IN FACT wake up at 4 a.m. in a strange house in desperate need of a shave.

At which point we'd then OF COURSE use our date's razor.

This makes complete sense to me. Doesn't it make sense to you?!

Dreams Mean Work

On my first date with @pacificnorthwest, he asked me a brilliant question. “What is the biggest risk you've ever taken?” he asked.

I did not have a good answer. I fumbled for one, but ultimately each “risk” that came to mind was lame and not that risky at all.

He had a good answer for the question when I turned it around to him, and I made up my mind to look for more risks, to be more open to challenges.

When he called the next day and told me he wanted me to fly to see him for New Year's Eve four days from then, I told him I'd visit if I could afford the ticket.

“Sounds like you're looking into your first risk of 2009, Miss Jess,” he had said. And I did look into it. Ultimately the flight was too expensive, but I booked a cheaper one for 30 days later.

And I risked a lot. I risked my safety, my security, my finances, and my heart.

Let it be said: These are not risks I regret.

My favorite passage has long been a page from the book “By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept,” by Paulo Coelho. It reads: “ 'You have to take risks,' he said. We will only understand the miracle of life fully when we allow the unexpected to happen. Every day, God gives us the sun—and also one moment in which we have the ability to change everything that makes us unhappy. Every day, we try to pretend that we haven't perceived that moment, that it doesn't exist—that today is the same as yesterday and will be the same as tomorrow. But if people really pay attention to their everyday lives, they will discover that magic moment. It may arrive in the instant when we are doing something mundane, like putting our front-door key in the lock; it may lie hidden in the quiet that follows the lunch hour or in the thousand and one things that all seem the same to us. But that moment exists—a moment when all the power of the stars becomes a past of us and enables us to perform miracles.
Joy is sometimes a blessing, but it is often a conquest. Our magic moment helps us to change and sends us off in search of our dreams. Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments—but all of this is transitory; it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken.
Pitiful is the person who is afraid of taking risks. Perhaps this person will never be disappointed or disillusioned; perhaps she won't suffer the way people do when they have a dream to follow. But when that person looks back—and at some point everyone looks back—she will hear her heart saying, 'What have you done with the miracles God planted in your days? What have you done with the talents God bestowed on you? You buried yourself in a cave because you were fearful of losing those talents. So this is your heritage: the certainty that you wasted your life.' ”

Every time I read this, I get chills. I get inspired. I want to pack up my belongings and move to Argentina or Spain or the moon. It makes me want to put my heart on the line and do silly things like fly to Seattle.

So, even though I didn't fly to Seattle for New Year's, @pacificnorthwest ended up being my first risk of the year anyway.

Coincidentally the book is all about two lovers who knew each other in their childhood and reunited as adults, but distance and dreams are obstacles, which they end up finding their way around.

I took a risk. May this year hold many, many more.

What if home really IS where the heart is...

I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid my hometown. A town of 11,000, I felt very confined when growing up. There was no room for mistakes, no room for growth, no privacy, no anonymity. Something you’d done at 12 followed you as long as it could hang on.

My younger life was anything but peachy and people in my hometown knew it. I dealt with various health issues, the least of which was my weight, and these all drastically affected the way I felt others saw me.

I used my weight as a sort-of protective mask, and in my junior year I realized that I was close to escaping home and with that would come opportunities to fulfill my potential and seek my dreams. So I started to transition. I lost (a lot of) weight and began seeking out activities to help shape me.

Upon graduation, I almost immediately lost contact with most people I grew up with. I branched out. I moved. Far away.

I went through drastically different phases of life. I went from being a conservative little girl who didn’t even want to dye or cut her long hair to a more-liberal chick with her hair cut in a sharp bob at my chin and dyed black with a red streak in it. And then a more classically dressed young woman. I became a (sometimes) career-driven professional. I have developed my personal tastes and my amazing friendships. I have created a very anti-hometown home for myself here in this city, and I love it.

And as generally content as I am with the components of my life, when I go home I tend to feel boxed in again. I feel like I’m that invisible little fat girl all over. And people’s newfound awe over my current appearance frustrates me even more (some of which I touched upon in my earlier post). I have an uncanny facial/name recognition, so I know everyone around me and, while they may have known me back in the day, most fail to recognize me now. So then when I say hello to them in the grocery store, I feel so ridiculous when they don’t have a clue who I am.

It is for this reason that I avoid that town. When I’m there, I’m there to see my family, so I stay safe in my parents’ cozy house. And if I do venture out, it’s in the big city 30 minutes away, where I’m far less likely to run into people from my hometown.

But regardless, it does happen. I do run into them. Sometimes I duck and run. Or stop, drop, and roll. Sometimes I blatantly ignore them. And sometimes I say hello.

And I was at a sushi restaurant waiting for a table Friday staring at one of my former classmate’s older brother. I thought about saying hi, but I was sure he had no idea who I was, and, well, he was just so good looking I guess I was afraid he’d see right through it. So I just stood there and waited for a table.

“Excuse me, but are you a *insert my last name here*?” He reached out to me and asked.

Now, my family is large and quite well known in this town, so while remarkable he had said something, I still figured it was just because I look like my siblings.

I said, “Yes, are you a Lozano?”

“I am! You’re Jess, right?”

And five minutes or so into conversation, he and his friends were seated.

Damn it, I thought. That’s it? He is so cute!

So I took my last shot of sake over to his table when I finished eating. I set it down in front of him and invited them all to the bar we were going to later that night, thinking there was no way he’d show.

About 10 minutes into arriving at the bar, I heard there was a huge line. I was sure this would prove to be a major deterrent, should he have thought about showing up.

Forty minutes later he walked in, looking every bit as handsome as he had earlier.

It was obvious he was there for me. But then, I hadn’t been in the area for months so I had about 20 other people there for me as well. I talked to him for a little bit, then I started to circulate between my friends, leaving him hanging out with his friend against the wall.

I was chatting with my ex boyfriend (funny enough) when he stopped by to tell me they were leaving. He emphatically told me how glad he was we ran into each other. But he didn’t get my number or anything.

As he walked away, my ex said, “What was up with that? Did you get his number? If I liked men, I’d like him. He’s a good looking dude.” Fist bump.

I walked back inside and my married friend (and therefore my de facto dating coach) said, “You lost your guy. What is wrong with you? He was so into you! And you basically ignored him the whole night and didn’t even get his number! You’re stupid!”

That was all the encouragement I needed. I Facebooked him right then and there. On my BlackBerry.

“Should’ve gotten your phone number. Shoulda coulda woulda, right?”

I thought, well, I haven’t seen him in five years, so even if my message isn’t well received, what have I got to lose? I won’t see him anyway.

But 10 minutes later I had a response. With a number. Asking me if I wanted to go out the next night.

And I did, so we went.

And talked for five hours straight. And started to make plans to visit each other in our respective locations, his being the Pacific northwest.

He thoroughly understood my feelings toward home. He shared them. He made me laugh and feel so comfortable and amazing and valuable. He laughed at my jokes and by the end of the night, we had more inside jokes than I can remember. He was every bit the gentlemen. We could barely bring ourselves to part at 3 a.m.

He told me he wanted to stay in contact. I agreed.

He’s called me twice in the last 24 hours. We have plans for me to visit him soon. This one feels like maybe it could be legitimate.

And I just can’t help but wonder…after decades of running from my hometown and pushing away so much associated with it, how funny it would be to find a guy who had been there all along.

Effing Beauty

Pretty people complaining about being pretty is about as ridiculously obnoxious as rich people complaining about having too much money. Or about fat people having too much food.

No one wants to hear it. There are enough ugly people in the world who would kill to have the face of Christy Turlington (or even the face of Rosie O'Donnell for that matter.... It really all depends on perspective). There are enough poor people in the world who would sell their souls for the annual income of a good ol' office assistant. There are enough starving people in the world who would stop at nothing to fill the bellies of their children and themselves.

So I keep trying to convince myself that, when put into perspective, it's completely irresponsible and undiscerning to complain about being pretty.

But I can't help it. No matter how many times I remind myself how fortunate I am to look as I do, I still just might crack should one more guy compliment my pretty face. I might cry. I might drop dead. I might start laughing hysterically, unable to control myself.

Because, as pretty as they may think I am, still not one worth his weight in dirt has wanted to date me. So when they tell me how pretty I am, it is traditionally closely followed up by a reason for which he doesn't care to see me again.

In the past months, I have gotten a good lineup of such reasons. The bullshit work excuse pulls in as the easy first. Incompatibility and other women tie for runner up. But what baffles me is that nearly every time, these reasons are preceded by an even-handed compliment aimed at my looks.

There was @hotinvestmentbanker who told me he thought I was pretty and dynamic, but someone had come back into his life. Then there was @workout.jpg who told me I had an amazing smile, great skin, and, of course, really pretty, but he just wanted to be friends. More recently I've fielded one more “You're so pretty” followed by a “I need to focus on work right now,” and (I swear these were the exact words), “I had a great time tonight. I think our backgrounds may be incompatible. But regardless, you have wonderful bone structure and eyes.” @bonestructure even instant messaged me the next day to tell me how amazing he thought I was, and how confident he was in my future successes as a PR executive.

And this has just been the last few months, not even counting the number of times I've been called “pretty” in the past few years.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with being complimented on my looks. It's that, after a while, feeling as though my face is the only positive attribute consistently recognized gets old. I want to start being recognized for my fantastic foxtrot and outstanding taste in sweaters for my dog. I want to be complimented for my wit, humor, and heart.

Basically I want someone to see past my appearances and just want me.

What difference does it make if they think I'm pretty if they don't want to see me again?

Granted, if they don't see past my exterior, who's to say I want to see them again anyway?

Cold Turkey

There aren't any meetings I can go to.

Other people go to meetings, stand up in front of a group of individuals. Their faces laced with several degrees of intense emotion, they may look across the room or stare at their hands, fingers twisted in front of them.

They stand there and say their names and admit to their addiction.

“Hi, my name is John, and I am an alcoholic.”

But there aren't any meetings for my addiction. No one would take them seriously, I reckon. Although I do figure there are millions of girls near my age (or not even close, for that matter!) who could use one.

Since there aren't any meetings for me, I'm going to go ahead and use this blog as a sounding board.

Hi, my name is J., and I am an attentionaholic.

I haven't always been so helplessly addicted to this vice of mine. There was once upon a time a day when I yearned for the affection of only one man. No, I didn't know who he was yet exactly, but I knew the guy undressing me with his eyes from across the room was probably not him.

I don't know the point at which I fell, but I have been able to identify my enabler, which had been providing me with access to unparalleled levels of attention from every direction. Whenever I'd try to give it up, there my enabler would be, loosely disguised as something else and all the more tempting for it.

I'd try to give up the attention, but every chance I got, there I'd find myself, back at the source.

After several bouts of severe disappointment brought on by an onslaught of bad attention, I made a decision. And I've followed through.

I went cold turkey.

I deleted my Internet dating profile.

The first few days were pretty tough, I will admit. I'd start to log in to the website, quickly realizing it was pointless. What would I do there, if I couldn't get attention? I wasn't going to log on just to make small talk, that was for sure.

I'd start to think about using other enablers. There are guys who would love the opportunity for me to bask in their attention-filled glow. I could text one. I could call another. Hey, I'm friends with several on MySpace...

And then I'd remind myself. I am better than that. I am stronger. With God's will I can do this and break the chains of my addiction.

My mom always told me that it only takes one. It only takes the attention of one man to squelch the desire for the attention of many. And really, the attention of many hasn't been at all fulfilling anyway.